


Won't Get Fooled Again

by AmyPond45



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, False Memories, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, Temporary Character Death - Winchesters, established wincest, psychic!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-20 03:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5990287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's in the "Cage." Nothing is real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sammybigbang challenge on tumblr and livejournal. All but the final scene was written before 11.10 aired. I needed to write Sam's time in the Not-Cage as a way to parallel my own experience of the mid-season hiatus (i.e. time moving REALLY REALLY slowly and the hiatus appearing to be much, much longer than it was in reality!) Many thanks to [Smalltrolven](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smalltrolven/pseuds/Smalltrolven) for her beta work and to [themegalosaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus) and [agelade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade) for running this wonderful challenge!
> 
>  **Art Link:** All art by the amazing [stormbrite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite) and posted on [LJ](http://stormbrite.livejournal.com/17609.html) | [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5970090) Go give some love for all the gorgeous art!

**Prologue**

"Let me in," Dean whispers, breath hot against the back of Sam's neck.

Sam's so sleepy he feels drugged, can't move his heavy limbs to save his life. He can feel Dean pressed along his back, knows they're naked and in bed together. He's even got some vague notion that Dean's trying to fuck him, especially when he feels Dean's lips on his shoulder, feels Dean's dick sliding between his legs.

"Come on, Sammy, that's it," Dean breathes in Sam's ear as his calloused hands push Sam's legs apart. One of Dean's hands slides over Sam's ribs and down his stomach, wrapping possessively around Sam's erection. "That's it, little brother. Let me in."

It feels good. Of course it does, even if Sam can't open his heavy eyelids, even if his body still feels buried in thick woolen sleep that just won't let him go. They've done this before, this sort of half-awake fucking around, and it always feels good. It's a kink of Dean's, and Sam knows he gets off on it, gets into manhandling and arranging his little brother's half-unconscious body, taking Sam's larger frame and doing what he wants with it.

Sam likes it too. It makes him feel little again. Taken care of. 

"That's it," Dean growls, thrusting his hips against Sam's ass, seeking friction. "That's it, Sammy. I got you." He gives Sam's dick a few quick jerks, and Sam tips his head back onto Dean's shoulder, mouth falling open on a tiny gasp. One of Dean's hands is between his ass-cheeks, the other on his dick, and when Dean's fingers slip easily into his slick hole Sam feels tender and raw for only a brief moment. He realizes they've done this already tonight, earlier, and he's still open and loose, still ready.

Dean kisses up Sam's neck, worries Sam's earlobe with his teeth as he lines up his dick at the entrance to Sam's body and starts to push.

"Wanna fuck you now," Dean murmurs, voice hot and dark against Sam's ear. "Say you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you, Sam."

Dean's hand is really working Sam's dick, thumb sliding over the slit, using Sam's pre-come to ease the friction. The soft skin of Dean's cock-head is teasing Sam's hole, pushing against it without breaching the rim. Dean slips the tip of his tongue along the shell of Sam's ear and Sam gasps.

He feels Dean's lips smile against his ear. "So sensitive," he whispers. "You were always so sensitive."

Dean takes his hand away from Sam's dick so he can touch Sam's lips, then pushes two fingers into Sam's mouth. "Get them wet for me, baby, come on."

Sam sucks obediently, lapping at the salty skin, tasting himself, licking in between Dean's fingers until they're dripping with spit.

"That's it," Dean murmurs approvingly, pulling his fingers free and returning his hand to Sam's dick, spreading the spit over the sensitive skin before taking Sam in hand again. "Tell me you want it, Sam. Say it!"

Dean's dick is pushing against his hole again, and Sam's sleep-muddled brain can't make sense of it. Dean never asks his permission. It's an unspoken agreement between them. Sam's consent is a given. It's always been that way.

"Come on, baby boy," Dean whispers. "Say yes."

_No._

Alarms go off in Sam's muzzy brain; he's instantly shaking and covered in sweat, his dick softening in Dean's grasp like a deflated balloon. Bile rises in the back of his throat and he struggles to pull himself away, to wake himself up from what has suddenly become his worst nightmare.

_This isn't Dean._

It's – and he's –

"No – no – " Sam's throat is sore, his voice hoarse like he hasn't used it in weeks, and it hurts. It's raw and painful and dry, and he has flashes of memories that bring tears to his eyes. Weeks and weeks of torture, of things being inserted into his mouth, down his throat...

Lucifer leans down over Sam, huddled in a protective fetal position, cold and alone on the hard floor in the corner of the cage, where he's been for weeks now. Maybe months, Sam's not sure. He's lost track. Lucifer brushes the hair back from Sam's cheek and Sam shivers in fear and revulsion as he feels Lucifer's cold lips press to his cheek.

"I never could fool you," Lucifer says with a fond chuckle.

**//**

**Pontiac, Illinois - 2007**

"Come on, son," John Winchester calls from the motel room doorway. "I want to be in South Bend by noon."

Sam slips the photograph back into his wallet, pushes aside the memory of laughing green eyes and warm freckled skin. Sometimes he can't even remember Dean's voice. He wishes he'd saved his brother's voice mails, his old cell phones, just so he could hear it. Dean's been gone for over a year now – killed by the yellow-eyed demon, just like Mom, just like Jess – but Sam misses his voice the most. John's voice is a little like it, and sometimes Sam thinks he can hear Dean's voice in the background when John speaks, like a radio that's just slightly out of tune.

He'd do anything to hear Dean's dark, rich baritone again. Anything.

But of course they've tried everything. The demon's just gone. After the crash that destroyed the car, left Dean lingering in a coma for a few days until he slipped away, devastating Sam and John and tearing a hole in Sam's heart that will never, ever heal – afterwards, the demon just disappeared. Like it got what it wanted. Like leaving Sam and John broken and heart-sick was its endgame all along.

Like it was personal.

And of course it _is_ personal. Of course Sam wants revenge more than ever now, can't imagine any life outside the trail of vengeance he and John are finally united in following. It's like it was always meant to be, father and son, hell-bent together in their pursuit of the only goal that gives their lives meaning anymore.

"Coming!"

Sam slings his duffel over his shoulder, grabs his messenger bag with his beat-up laptop tucked inside, and lets his eyes roam over the room one last time out of habit, making sure they haven't left anything behind. Of course there's nothing here. There never is. It's just another empty motel room, devoid of comfort or anything of value, not even a shadow or a whisper of the ghost in Sam's heart, the former co-occupant of every room in Sam's life.

John's already got the truck fired up when Sam climbs into the passenger seat. He gives Sam a grim nod, backs the truck out of the parking lot, then turns up the volume on the tape deck as they head down the highway. John was never much of a talker, but in the last year he's become positively taciturn, barely acknowledging Sam's presence most of the time except to go over a new lead. This time they're investigating some weird storms over Lake Michigan which, along with a couple of unexplained cattle deaths in Northern Indiana, just might indicate demon activity.

Or not. Usually not. Usually these days possible demon activity turns out to be something more normal, like seasonal weather phenomena and ordinary bovine viruses. Sometimes the Winchesters stumble on a simple hunt after another failed lead, and the monster in their crosshairs never knew what hit it, never died so hard and fast, put down with the kind of cold rage that needs instant gratification. Most of the monsters the Winchesters hunt these days are only poor substitutes for the thing they really need to kill, but they take whatever grim satisfaction they can from ending another werewolf or vampire, maybe only dimly aware of how ruthless and heartless their killing has become.

Other hunters keep their distance, of that much Sam's aware. Even Bobby Singer's stopped taking their calls, although they pretty much stopped calling him anyway. The fact is, after Dean's death, neither Winchester could bear to speak to their old friends, to hear the note of sympathy or shared grief in their voices. Their self-imposed isolation is probably destroying them both, but neither Winchester has it in him to care very much.

John's drinking again, only harder now. He holds himself together when they're working, then hits the bottle pretty hard for a day or two afterwards. Sam can't bear to join him, doesn't even allow himself the luxury of a little maudlin wine-crying session once in awhile. For the first few months after Dean's death, Sam spent every waking moment researching some way to bring him back, and he hasn't given up, but he knows in his heart that he's starting to lose his mind. He knows its only a matter of time before he burns out, slips up, gets killed. Kinda accidentally on-purpose, maybe. Probably not.

When they roll into South Bend, John drops Sam off at the university to talk to Professor Mallory, climatologist, while John heads down to the local tv station to question the meteorologists there. Sam's still only twenty-three, can easily pass for a college student looking into climatology for graduate school, and his experience at Stanford stands him in good stead when he needs help from college professors. Most of them can't resist the flattery to their egos and are eager to impress a good-looking young man, and Sam knows just how to lay on the kind of charm that gets them talking.

And talking. Sometimes, the problem is getting professor-so-and-so to shut the hell up, and Professor Mallory is no exception. He wants to take Sam out for coffee, is so obvious about wanting to get into Sam's pants it's a little embarrassing. Sam excuses himself as soon as he gets the information he needs, letting the man down gently but firmly.

As he walks back across the campus to the agreed-upon meeting-place, Sam feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle ominously. He stopped having visions when Dean died, but he still gets these weird little feelings sometimes, like he's being watched. He takes a couple more steps, then stops, turns slowly around to scan the campus lawn he just crossed.

Students heading to class, sunlight through trees making soft shadows on the lush green of the grass, no one standing still and staring at Sam.

Sam's sure about the feeling, but he doesn't tell John when John picks him up at the edge of campus, drives them to a motel just out of town, then goes out to get food. When he doesn't come back after a couple of hours Sam's first response is frustrated anger. John must've stopped in a bar. Again. Sam's just about to go out to get himself some food when his phone rings.

"Dad?"

"Heya, Sammy." The voice on the phone isn't John, and Sam's irritation is gone in an instant as he feels cold water rush through his veins.

"Who is this? Where's my Dad?" he demands, fear prickling up the back of his neck along with a rush of guilt for not warning John about his feeling earlier.

"Hey now, Sammy, is that any way to greet an old friend?" The voice snarks.

It's male, unfamiliar, full of insinuation, but Sam's brain analyzes the threat instantly, knows he's got only two choices here. He goes for the lesser of two evils out of what's left of his misguided faith. 

"Meg?"

"Try again, Sammy," the man sneers, and Sam feels all the breath punch out of him, feels like he's drowning.

"You," he gasps with what's left of his air. He clutches the small phone so hard he suddenly realizes he could easily crush it, so he loosens his grip a little. "Where's my dad, you son-of-a-bitch?"

"Temper, temper, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes soothes. "You don't want to wreck your chance to see your father again just because you can't control your anger, do you?"

"You've got him," Sam states the obvious, struggling to control his fear. "Is he – is he okay?"

"He's fine, Sam, and he'll stay that way as long as you do exactly as I say."

"Put him on the phone," Sam growls through gritted teeth. "I need to know you're not lying."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, as if Yellow-Eyes is turning his head to look at someone behind him. "He's a little indisposed at the moment," he insinuates.

"So help me God, if you hurt him – " Sam has to fight to keep from screaming, pacing the floor just to give himself something to do.

"You'll what, Sammy? Huh?" Yellow-Eyes taunts. "Offer your life for his? Like he tried to do for little Dean-o? Is that what you're telling me?"

"What?" Sam's empty stomach lurches and roils. "He did what? When was this?""

"He didn't tell you," Yellow-Eyes remarks. "Interesting. Something tells me your father doesn't exactly trust you, Sammy. Maybe you're better off without him."

"You listen to me, you son-of-a-bitch," Sam smacks the flat of his hand against the doorframe, wishing he could hit something more satisfying, frustrated almost beyond human endurance. "You hurt my dad, I will end you. I will find a way, if it takes the rest of my life, and I will kill you. I swear it."

"Seems to me you're batting zero so far, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes comments. "Sorta running out of options here. Let's see, so far I've killed your mommy, your girlfriend, your big brother, and now I've got your daddy sitting here already looking a little under-the-weather, if you get my drift. And you're threatening me? Not sure that's such a good move, kiddo."

Sam takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and steadies himself against the doorframe. He tips his forehead against it, taking a minute to gather his thoughts and take stock of his choices.

Dean's face appears in his mind's eye, as clear as if he was standing there, smirking at him, right eyebrow cocked in that teasing way that always drove Sam crazy. _"What're you gonna do, Sam?"_ he seems to say. _"Better find out what he wants."_

"What do you want?" Sam asks out loud, letting out a long sigh, keeping his eyes closed so he can almost feel Dean beside him.

Yellow-Eyes makes a creepy little sound, almost like an approving hum. "It's time, Sammy," he murmurs, almost purring. "Time to fulfill your destiny. Your brother's death has turned you into a killer, and now you're ready to complete your mission."

"What mission?" Sam snaps, angry and irritated again, eyes flying open to stare wildly at the empty space next to him. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Opening the Gates of Hell, Sam," Yellow-Eyes seems to be smiling now. "Don't you remember? You've always known it was what you were meant to do. You're my favorite of my special children. I always knew it would be you, and now you've won, don't you see? You outlived the others, and it's time for you to take your rightful place in Hell. It's the natural order of things. You're the boy king, remember? It's all you, Sammy."

Sam feels the walls closing in around him, feels the air grow darker. Memories he didn't know he had, of things he doesn't remember doing, now flood to the front of his mind as if they'd always been there. Memories of other special children, of Yellow-Eyes coming to him in a dream, showing him the night his mother died, dripping demon blood into baby Sam's mouth. Confusion and disbelief distort the memories; Sam's sure they're not real, more like dreams of another life, a year passed very differently. But at the same time he's convinced those memories _should_ be real, which makes no sense, of course.

"No," Sam whispers, too soft for anyone but himself to hear. 

"Time to make the big choice, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes goes on. "Time to step up to the plate and take the final swing."

Sam shakes his head, closes his eyes again, and there's Dean, giving him that intense gaze he gets when he needs Sam to focus. _"There's gotta be another way, Sam,"_ he says, voice low and rough, and Sam's so relieved to hear it, even if it's just in his head, that he practically cries. _"Use that big college boy brain of yours and think!"_

"I can't do it," Sam whispers. "I won't."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes sneers. "Not sure I heard you. Come on, kiddo. What's it gonna be? Dad's life for the Gates of Hell going once, going twice...?"

Sam's blood pounds in his ears, and when he opens his mouth it feels dry and scratchy like sandpaper. It tastes like sulfur.

"Need a little aural stimulation, do we?" Yellow-Eyes coaxes. "Looks like Daddy's coming 'round."

Sam holds his breath as he hears John moaning in the background. The sounds grow louder as Yellow-Eyes obviously walks over to John and puts the phone close to his ear.

"Dad?" Sam calls, knowing his father can hear him now if he's conscious enough.

There's a pause as John responds to Sam's voice, gathers his strength and starts yelling. "Don't do it! Sam, whatever he wants, don't do it!"

A loud whack followed by a sharp cry of pain sears through Sam's senses, makes him call out. "Dad!"

"Yeah no, he's out again," Yellow-Eyes snarks into the phone. "Not sure how much longer he'll last, really. My demons have been a little rougher than they shoulda been working him over. I think it's all those friends and family Johnny's managed to send back to Hell over the years, not to mention my son, who your brother killed outright. Yeah, I gotta say I don't blame them wanting to take a little revenge. It's only natural when it's family, right, Sammy?"

"Where is he?" Sam demands. "Tell me where he is so I can come get him. He needs a hospital!"

"So I take it that's a 'yes'?" Yellow-Eyes pushes. "Are you saying 'yes' to my deal, Sam?"

Something about the tone of Yellow-Eyes' voice niggles at the back of Sam's brain, something off about it that he can't quite put his finger on. Other than the obvious, of course; Yellow-Eyes is manipulating him, Sam knows that, but there's something else going on. Something Sam should remember...something just beyond reach of his conscious memories...and Sam's not exactly trusting his memories all of a sudden, thinks maybe Yellow-Eyes is messing with them, somehow...

He closes his eyes, and there's Dean again, gazing steadily at him, giving him strength.  
_"Don't do it, Sam,"_ he warns, his voice rich and real in Sam's ears, the sound a balm on his aching soul, on his grief. _"You know Dad would never want this."_

"Last chance, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes warns. "Say 'yes' to this, I'll let you have your dad back. He's all you've got, kiddo, don't lose him too."

"How do I know you won't kill him anyway?" Sam demands, opening his eyes to the sight of John's empty bed.

"You don't," Yellow-Eyes agrees. "But I think we both know you're gonna give me what I want, Sam, one way or the other. Might as well save your father's life while you're at it. You're never gonna see him again regardless."

"What are you talking about?" Sam's heart beats faster, his palms sweat.

"You know what I'm talking about, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes purrs. "You've got my blood in your veins. Your dad knows that. You're more mine than his, always have been. You do this, your father will never want to see you again. But at least he'll be alive. Just think about that, Sam. He may hate you, but at least he'll have his life."

"I need to see him!" Sam cries, knowing how desperate he sounds, not caring anymore. "Please!"

"I need that 'yes,' Sam," Yellow-Eyes prompts. "I'm texting the address to you right now. Say 'yes,' and I'll hit 'send.'"

No.

 _No!_ Sam hears Dean's voice in his head, clear as if he was standing right next to him, as if Dean could read his surrender and was lodging one final protest.

But this makes no sense to Sam; Dean would never make a choice that would end in the death of their father. Never. He would say 'yes' just to buy them some time, save Dad's life right now, figure out how to get out of the deal later.

Something's not right here.

"Time's up!" Yellow-Eyes announces, gleeful. "Better hurry if you want to say your last goodbyes, Sammy."

"No!" Sam cries out as he hears the unmistakable sound of a blade sinking into flesh.

John makes a wet, gurgling gasp, like he's got a mouthful of blood, then the line goes dead. 

"No, no, no, no!" The word pours out in a litany of disbelief as despair floods Sam's veins with dust and ash and death. "Come on, come on!" Sam's struggling to redial when his phone beeps with an incoming text message.

He's out the door, carjacking the first vehicle he finds, jerking the stunned driver out of the driver's seat at gunpoint and taking off without stopping to think about where he's going. The address is on the main drag, no more than a five-minute drive, but Sam floors it, ignoring the honks of passing drivers. It's already late, around midnight, and the streets are fairly quiet anyway, businesses all closed down for the night, not a single pedestrian on the street. When Sam screeches to a stop in the alley next to the empty warehouse he leaves the keys in the ignition, finds an open door near the dumpster and charges up the dark stairs inside, barely taking time to pull his flashlight and gun out. When he reaches the second floor he gets ready to kick in the door but finds it standing slightly ajar, as if somebody was in a hurry to leave and forgot to shut it on their way out.

Or as if someone – or some _thing_ – is waiting for him.

Inside there's a single light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a harsh light on the middle of the room, leaving deep shadows at the edges. Almost directly under the light John Winchester sits tied and slumped forward on a sturdy wooden chair, blood dripping into a large puddle beneath him. He's not moving, and his eyes are closed, chin resting on his chest, clearly unconscious and held upright only by the ropes binding him to the chair.

"Dad!"

Sam crosses the room in two long strides and sinks to his knees in front of his father, one hand moving up to find the pulse in John's carotid artery, the other seeking out the source of John's wounds. John's pulse is weak, his skin clammy and cold, and the sheer quantity of blood-loss is disturbing. There are nicks and cuts all over John's neck and arms, along with abrasions and bruising on his face commensurate with a brutal beating; one eye is completely swollen shut. 

Nothing life-threatening, though, until Sam finds the gaping knife wounds in John's chest and abdomen. As Sam pulls away the blood-soaked cloth of John's shirt, his father moans, shifts on the chair and opens his good eye, lifting his chin so he can see Sam's face.

"Sammy – " John tries to speak, but blood bubbles up to his lips and he chokes instead, coughing and spraying Sam with a mouthful of warm, coppery fluid.

"Shh, Dad, don't try to speak," Sam admonishes, hands moving quickly over the ropes binding John to the chair. He pulls out his pocket knife, too impatient to loosen the knots, and saws away frantically at the bindings. "I'm gonna get you out of here. Get you to a doctor. Gonna patch you up good as new."

"Sammy – " John gasps as Sam's blade cuts through the last rope and the big man slumps forward into his son's arms. Sam rocks back on his haunches, struggling to support John's dead weight, trying not to think about how much blood he's lost. Sam's mind is working the problem, recalling his dad's triage training, reciting it in his head.

"Come on, Dad," Sam says, frustration boiling to the surface as he tries to lift John to his feet, free now of the ropes but weakened by blood-loss and shock. "I can't carry you. You have to get up and lean on me."

"Can't." John sinks down to the floor, resisting every effort to get him up, to get him moving. "Sammy, listen to me."

"No, Dad, you're gonna be fine," Sam protests, warm wet tears streaming down his cheeks unbidden. "I just gotta get you outta here. Gotta get the bleeding stopped..."

He takes his own jacket and shirt off without even thinking about it, pulls John's shirt open and attempts to stuff the cloth against the wounds there. There's so much blood it isn't even possible to find individual wounds, and Sam starts to take his belt off, thinking maybe he can create a make-shift tourniquet...

"Sam, stop." John's hands find Sam's wrists, holds them still with more strength than a man should have when he's bleeding out on the floor of an empty warehouse in some stupid mid-western college town. "I need you to listen to me, son. Can you do that? Listen to me."

Sam lifts tear-blurred eyes, sees the evidence of impending death in his father's sunken features, his pale skin, the unnatural flush in his cheeks, his one good eye.

"You did good, Sam, you hear me?" John says, his voice choked and hoarse as he struggles to breathe, to pull enough air into his punctured lungs to push the words out. "You didn't let that bastard take you. You made the right choice."

"Dad – " A sob tears through Sam's chest, and he wipes furiously at his eyes with the back of one blood-covered hand, feels his father's blood mixing with the tears on his cheeks.

"You keep fighting, Sam," John chokes out. "Don't let him get you, you hear me? Never say yes to that bastard."

"Yes, sir," Sam sobs, shaking with the effort to keep from collapsing, to hold it together one final time for the old man.

"That's it, son," John nods, his hands tightening on Sam's wrist, his bicep, just holding onto him with all the strength he has left. He's got his one good eye fixed on Sam, and its glittering and dark, almost like he's possessed, like the force inside him that's been driving him this long is going to be the last thing left, probably has been for a while now. "That's it now."

Sam can feel it when John lets go, starts slipping away, his grip loosening and his gaze sliding away from Sam's face, onto the floor past Sam's elbow, no longer able to stay fixed on anything. 

"Dad?" Sam clutches his father's shoulders, tries to pull him upright, the idea of keeping him from drowning in his own blood the central point of Sam's existence now. He hugs John's body against him, feels for a pulse. He finds a stuttering rhythm that doesn't hold, feels John's chest rise and fall once more, then go still.

There's a moment after it's obvious to Sam that John is gone when Sam just doesn't think about it. He closes his eyes, imagines Dean crouching next to him, wonders vaguely why Dean isn't mad. Dean should be furious at him for failing to save John. Dean should be raging and full of grief and disappointment in Sam, letting him know in no uncertain terms that Sam let him down. Dean should be wanting to hit him, should be throwing things and screaming his frustration that Sam could let this happen.

Sam feels something warm and solid on his back, and he wants to believe it's Dean's hand, offering comfort and reassurance.

"I could bring him back, you know."

Sam's eyes fly open as the hated voice sounds in his ears. He stares into the shadows at the other end of the room and sees movement there, then something glowing. He thinks it's a cigarette at first, then realizes it's two yellow eyes, staring at him from the gloom.

Sam lowers his father's body gently onto the floor and stands up slowly as the figure from the shadows moves forward into the light. Sam knows who it is even without the yellow eyes, but being face to face with the thing that killed his family for the first time in over a year isn't nearly as terrifying as Sam had always imagined it would be.

For one thing, the man is short. Sam knows it's a meat-suit, that this isn't really what Yellow-Eyes looks like, this compact, solidly-built working man with his rough, calloused hands, a man who was probably a construction worker or a sanitation engineer in his former life. That man probably never menaced anyone, the tan creases of his sun-toughened face usually relaxed into a genuine, easy grin over a socket-wrench or a draft beer, slow to anger, rarely allowing life to get him down.

John Winchester had been a more worthy meat-suit for this much evil, Sam thinks idly as he stares at the demon. At least John was tall and imposing. At least John could be genuinely threatening without much effort.

"No," Sam says without hesitation. If Dad hadn't wanted him dealing before he was dead, Sam has no doubt how he'd feel about being part of any deal that brought him back to life. Because Sam'd feel the same way. Deals like that are dirty as they come.

"Aw, Sammy, I thought you'd be more of a gamer than that," Yellow-Eyes taunts, his smile tight and without an ounce of warmth.

Sam pulls himself to his full height, clenching then slowly unclenching his fists. He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth, all the while keeping his gaze locked with Yellow-Eyes'.

"My dad would never want me to deal with you," he says firmly. "Especially not to be brought back from the dead."

"Aw, you know, that's touching, Sam. That really is," Yellow-Eyes rubs his chin, looks thoughtful, almost sympathetic for a brief moment. "Respecting Dad's wishes, even after death. You know, you're a much better son than he ever gave you credit for, sport. There's an irony in that, don't you think?"

Yellow-Eyes pauses for a minute, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth, his look speculative and full of cunning.

"But he's not the one I'm offering to bring back," he says quietly.

The words throw Sam for a moment, utterly confuse him until he feels something warm on his shoulder, feels the goosebumps and the prickling hairs on the back of his neck. It's chilly in the room, he realizes for the first time, and it isn't just because Sam's half-naked. The air is unusually cold. Unnaturally so.

Which is when he understands.

 _Stupid. How could he be so stupid?_ All this past year, dreaming of Dean, imagining him right there beside him when he closed his eyes – it wasn't just Sam's vivid imagination, although that had always been a part of himself he knew he could depend on to maintain his sanity, to keep him grounded.

No, this was something else. Something he hasn't allowed himself to think about, despite his training, despite all his first-hand knowledge and experience.

Sam closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, and Dean's right there, right beside him, hand warm and reassuring on Sam's shoulder.

 _"Don't listen to him, Sam,"_ Dean seems to say. _"Don't let him manipulate you."_

Sam opens his eyes, glares at Yellow-Eyes.

"You said you couldn't," he accuses. "You said when my dad tried to deal for Dean's life, you wouldn't do it."

Yellow-Eyes grins, and in the dim light his face seems skeletal, feral. "Not then," he hisses. "Not when I already had him just where I wanted him."

"You double-crossed him," Sam accuses. "You let him think you were going to save Dean. You took the Colt, but you let Dean die anyway. You lied!"

"Even better!" Yellow-Eyes is grinning so broadly now his face seems ready to split in two. "I took his soul! John's mine now. Left here, went straight to Hell. Did not pass go. Did not collect two-hundred dollars. Straight. To. Hell."

"But Dean – " Sam's heart is pounding painfully.

"Is still right here, sport," Yellow-Eyes nods. "Always has been. Right beside you. You know that. You can sense him, when you want to."

"No," Sam breathes, shivering against the cold creeping along his bare skin. He knows it's true, he's just been in denial. Hasn't wanted to admit he could be what's holding Dean here. But of course he is. Of course Sam's the thing binding Dean to the Earth.

"And I always make good on my deals, Sammy," Yellow-Eyes continues. "I took your daddy's soul in exchange for Dean's life, and I'm prepared to honor that deal. Right now. All I need is a word from you. You say 'yes,' kiddo, and Dean's back, good as new. Just like that."

Sam's heart is pounding fit to burst now, his hands clammy, sweat mixing with his father's blood on his brow, sliding down his temple, his cheek, his neck, despite the cold. He feels alive for the first time in over a year, his skin tingling with electricity, his blood buzzing with excitement. The thought of having Dean in his arms again, alive and well, after he's forced his memories of Dean so deep inside this past year – forced himself to forget how it feels to touch and feel and love – after training himself to go on without that part of himself that could do those things, to survive despite the Dean-shaped hole in his heart – it's almost too much.

Sam wonders if a man could die of the shock of coming back to life in his own skin.

Then he remembers what he's done this past year, all the killing, the rage and senselessness of it, how he's let his vengeance define him until there's probably not much left of the man Dean loved so much. In fact, there's not much about him that's lovable anymore at all, if there ever was. He imagines Dean's look of disappointment, his shock and revulsion at what Sam's become – a killing machine without a discernible soul, obsessed by his pursuit of death and destruction in order to achieve one goal: to find and obliterate the thing that took away Sam's reason for living.

Truth is, the possibility of finding and killing Yellow-Eyes was the only thing that gave Sam's life meaning this past year, the only thing that kept him going. Truth is, Yellow-Eyes succeeded in ripping Sam's soul right out of him when Dean died, and now the only part of Sam worth saving is already dead.

"What'd'ya say, sport?" Yellow-Eyes prods. "You want your brother back. Say it. It's all you think about. I know it is, because I can see inside your head, Sam. I know how your heart works. I'm already inside that massive brain of yours. Not like you can keep me out, after all. I'm in your blood."

"No," Sam breathes, shaking his head a little to clear it, to wrench free of the shivery, buzzing sensations that are making his heart and his head pound with blood.

Demon blood. It sings to him, makes him dizzy, eats away at his resistance. It clouds his judgment with heady promises of repressed desires fulfilled at long last, forces images into his mind of long-forgotten memories. Images of Dean's laughing face, his sparkling eyes, the sun in his hair, his profile at the wheel of the car, the backs of his hands on Sam's naked thighs, scattered with freckles, the knuckles perpetually bruised or scarred. Dean's hard, muscled body pressed against Sam's, the feel of his warm mouth trailing long wet kisses down Sam's chest.

_Demon blood._

Why does Sam think that? How does he know that he has demon blood in him? Did Azazel put that thought in his head?

 _Azazel._ How does he know Yellow-Eyes' name?

Something's wrong here.

"Come on, Sammy." Yellow-Eyes' squints at him, and Sam's aware that only a few seconds have passed; his mind is reeling. "You know you can't hold out on me forever. Just say the word and your brother is yours again."

Sam closes his eyes, feels Dean right beside him, inside his personal space, almost pressed against him. Sam can feel his brother's heat, feels his breath on Sam's neck.

 _"You tell that son-of-a-bitch he can go to hell,"_ Dean rumbles, voice low and intimate, just for Sam to hear. _"You and me are fine just the way we are. Not leaving you, Sam. There's nothing can come between us, you hear me? Nothing."_

 _Not even death,_ Sam answers in his head, silently, but Dean seems to hear him.

 _"That's right,"_ he nods, and Sam can see him now, Dean's beautiful face with his long, thick eyelashes framing his huge green eyes, freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks, his mouth just as plush and kissable as Sam remembers, his strong jaw set firmly. _"I'm right here, Sam. Not going anywhere."_

"No," Sam pulls himself up to his full height, directs his glare at Yellow-Eyes with as much rage and determination as he can muster. "Not doin' it. Not for anything."

Yellow-Eyes raises an eyebrow, and Sam gets momentary satisfaction from the knowledge that the demon is surprised and displeased.

"Huh." Azazel's eyes narrow, his mouth sets in a tight line. "You sure about that, Sammy? You sure you want to consign your brother's spirit to permanent limbo? You do know what happens to disembodied spirits over time."

Sam closes his eyes, lets Dean's warmth rush over him before he opens them again, stares down the demon with a stiff nod. "I know. Dean's strong. He'll be okay."

Yellow-Eyes looks doubtful. "I don't know, sport," he shakes his head. "Dean always struck me as fragile. Vulnerable. A weak link. That's why I removed him from your life in the first place. He was holding you back, Sam. Too much emotional baggage. You're stronger without him."

"That's not true," Sam insists. _He's my rock. And I'm his._ Sam thinks but doesn't speak the words aloud, won't give voice to the power of the Winchesters' connection, not to this demon. "And my decision stands. Not doing it. Not helping you do anything, you son-of-a-bitch."

Yellow-Eyes looks thoughtful, tilting his head as if listening to Sam's thoughts. "I could remove him from your memories," he tells Sam softly. "Make you forget him."

Sam feels cold tendrils of fear snaking up his spine. There's something about this that feels familiar, like he's had this conversation before.

"I don't care," he breathes, his heart pounding too hard again. "My answer's still the same."

Yellow-Eyes smiles, and his face transforms, becomes hollow and full of shadows, skeletal and white as bone. "I can give you false memories of him, Sam. Make you think he beat you. Raped you."

Sam feels a rush of familiarity again; he's definitely had this conversation before, or something like it.

Or he's lived it, had these things happen in another life, a life where he has memories of Dean being a monster. A demon.

Something shakes loose inside Sam's head, skitters across the inside of his skull, leaving behind a memory of Dean with black eyes, Dean staring up at him from a chair in a dark cellar room, snarling at him, barely human.

Sam shakes his head to clear it, tries to focus on the memory as it slithers away, leaving behind a sense of unease that settles deep in his bones. Something is definitely not right. All of this – Sam's memories of the past year, since Dean's death – all of this is wrong.

He glances up at Yellow-Eyes, but it isn't Yellow-Eyes anymore. It's a different man, taller, more handsome, sleek and graceful like a cat, his movements fluid and deceptively attractive, like a dancer.

"Who–" Sam starts to ask.

Then the man smiles, crosses his arms and ankles as he leans against a post in the center of the room.

"I think you know who I am, Sam," he says, his voice sending shivers of pure terror through Sam's body. "I never could fool you. Not for long, anyway."

_Lucifer._

Sam feels the ground rush up to swallow him as darkness clouds his vision, floods his consciousness with pin-pricks of pain as his current memories collide with other memories, shifting Sam's sanity until the darkness feels like blessed relief and he relishes the blank thoughtlessness of a deep, exhausted sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Bunker, Lebanon, Kansas, 2070**

Sam remembers.

He remembers his time in the Cage, how Lucifer bent and falsified reality, how he got into Sam's memories and replaced them with false ones. Sam remembers the false memories like they're stories he was told as a child, like photographs of himself as a baby or a toddler that make him think he remembers because he's looked at them so often.

It's been years now, and Sam's not sure anymore if he's still really there, or if he's sleeping and having nightmares. He remembers growing old, pacing the halls of the bunker with only Cas for occasional company, when the angel doesn't have something better to do. Dean's been gone for years, and Sam's reflexes are fading, but he's still got a good brain for facts and details. He can still figure things out. He can still be useful.

Sam remembers the torture, how Lucifer morphed into Dean, into John, into Bobby, how he led Sam through long, labyrinthian realities that were full of false memories. But Sam lived them all as if they were real, multiple lifetimes experienced in sequence, or sometimes out of order, replacing Sam's real memories of events until he couldn't be sure what was real and what wasn't anymore.

Sam remembers times in the Cage when Lucifer got sick of playing memory games, when Sam found himself naked and bleeding from a million tiny razor-blade cuts, Lucifer resorting to the least creative means of torture possible out of sheer boredom and frustration.

Now Sam's tired. He's eighty-seven years old, last time he checked, and he spends a lot of his days resting, dozing off in his chair while trying to study. He's decided long ago that it doesn't really matter if he never made it out of the cage-that-wasn't-really-the-Cage that time, or even if he ever made it out of the real Cage, the time before that. It doesn't really change the way he's lived his life these past fifty-some years. He's still doing what he always did, trying to make sense of the world, trying to help a few people. It's a simple life, really. Nothing too flashy. He left the heroism and the swashbuckling to younger hunters long ago, and now he's basically Bobby, the guy they call when they need some research done, some cover verified. He's the most experienced and knowledgeable hunter on the planet, but that's all. That's all he is now.

Sam shuffles his way into the kitchen, puts the kettle on to boil for a cup of green tea. He's not too fond of the stuff, but it keeps indigestion at bay, helps him sleep without jerking awake every hour or two.

He's reaching for one of the chipped mugs on the side-board when he feels the old familiar tingle on the back of his neck.

"Dean?"

He turns, and there, in the doorway, wearing his soft old Henley and with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, is Dean.

"Heya, Sammy."

He's looking good, scrubbed and clean and healthy, and not a day over thirty-five, if that. He's got that open, vulnerable expression that makes him look even younger, and he's looking at Sam like he hasn't seen him in a very long time.

Which, yeah, he hasn't.

Sam's so glad to see him he doesn't hesitate, just crosses the room and hauls Dean into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his cheek against Dean's ear, collapsing into him like always.

"Missed you," Sam gasps into Dean's hair, taking a deep breath of his brother's familiar scent. Leather and Old Spice and faint traces of gunpowder, just like always.

"Me, too," Dean rumbles back, burying his face in Sam's shoulder. There's a little hitch in his voice, and Sam feels the tears spill out of his eyes in response, closing them tight as the tears run down his cheeks. "It's okay. It's all okay now, Sam. I promise."

Sam finally pulls back, looks back over his shoulder, expecting to see his own body crumpled on the floor by the sink, where he was standing the moment he felt Dean in the room.

But there's nothing there.

"So, I'm dead?" he suggests, turning back to gaze into Dean's huge green eyes again. "This is it?"

Dean slides his hand along Sam's cheek, pushing his hair back tenderly, gazing up at Sam with a film of tears over his eyes. He's almost too beautiful to look at. Sam's forgotten how beautiful Dean was. Photographs never do him justice.

"Like looking into the sun," Dean deadpans, and Sam barks out a laugh, then realizes Dean means him. Sam. Dean's looking at Sam.

"I'm old," Sam feels himself blushing under Dean's intense gaze, feels the years fall away so he's young and full of rebellious energy again, desperately in love with the love of his life, an infuriating, complicated, devastating love that consumes his days and nights and makes him crazy with need.

"Not to me," Dean rumbles, fingers curling around the back of Sam's neck, tugging his face down so their mouths can meet.

The kiss is slow and tender and excruciatingly familiar; Sam feels waves of grief wash over him, memories of other kisses, years of missing this and living with the loss almost more than he can bear. Tears flow freely down his cheeks, and Dean thumbs at them, releases Sam's lips so he can kiss the apples of his cheeks, the tip of his nose.

"Shhh," he soothes. "Don't cry, Sammy. There's no reason to cry. You're all right now."

"Love you so much," Sam chokes out. "I never told you. I never told you before you – and then it was too late – " He's sobbing openly now, chest heaving, great hiccuping gasps making tears and snot just run all over everywhere.

"Hey, shh," Dean pulls a tissue out of the box on the counter, hands it to Sam. "You never have to tell me that, Sam. You know that. That's not how it is between us. Not how it was. Ever."

"I know," Sam nods, wiping at his cheeks and nose, discarding the used tissue in the trash basket next to the table as Dean hands him a fresh one. "I know, Dean. I just missed you so much!"

"Missed you, too, baby boy," Dean murmurs, stepping in for another hug. "Missed you, too."

Sam slumps into his brother, hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder as fresh tears leak down his cheeks, soaking Dean's shirt, and Dean rubs Sam's back, making slow, strong strokes with his powerful hands, soothing the aches out of Sam's tired muscles.

"Come on," Dean says after a good, long hug, when Sam's feeling cried out and relaxed, maybe even a little exhausted from releasing so much pent-up grief. "Let's get you to bed."

Sam feels a flush of embarrassment – maybe even lust – at the idea of Dean seeing his body this way. It's silly. Dean's the one who wiped his butt when he was a baby, who cleaned up his puke and wrestled him naked into the bathtub as a toddler and preschooler, who fucked around with him when they were both horny teenagers, when Sam's body was still small and undeveloped and skinny as a rail, when Sam's face was spotted with acne and he felt so ugly he couldn't understand Dean's attention, couldn't get it into his head how beautiful he was to Dean. Wouldn't believe it.

In Sam's bedroom, Dean undresses him, spreads him out on the bed, then removes his own clothes as Sam watches.

"Dean, I'm not sure I can – " Sam starts to say as Dean crawls onto the bed next to him, lays a warm hand on his belly, possessive and sure.

"Shh," Dean soothes, running his hand up over Sam's chest, burying his face in the crook of Sam's neck. "We'll go slow."

He kisses a trail down Sam's jaw, angles in for his mouth. Dean strokes Sam's face as he kisses his lips, pushing his tongue into Sam's mouth to explore, to claim, sliding his hand around to the back of Sam's neck so he can hold his head while he plunders Sam's mouth.

Sam's forgotten how good it felt to kiss someone, how intimate it feels. Dean was always good at this, could always take his time so Sam never felt pushed, never rushed. There was a time when Sam was too eager for Dean's kisses, wanted more too soon. When Sam was young he was a wild combination of restless energy and self-doubt, needing Dean to confirm his self-worth, demanding validation for his dreams and desires. And Dean always complied, sometimes submerging his own needs in his effort to give Sam what he wanted. It took Sam a while to understand how out-of-balance the dynamic was between them; Sam had to learn to hold himself in check a little so that Dean could express his own needs. But once Sam understood this, he learned to pull those needs out of a deep, private place inside Dean, make Dean face them. Sometimes Sam had to force Dean to recognize how deep his need for Sam went, just so they could be real with each other.

Now it's Sam's turn to take it slow, to lay back and let Dean show him how much he wants Sam, how much he's always wanted Sam, no matter how old or young they are, no matter what or who comes between them. Dean will always choose Sam, and Sam long ago reconciled himself to his own lack of choice where Dean's concerned. Dean's a part of him, always, and the life they built together and lived together was one that Sam chose freely, would choose again if he had the chance.

Now Dean's hands, his mouth, the slow thrusting of his hips against Sam's, all of this is so familiar yet so long-lost, so much missed, and Sam finds tears slipping unbidden down his cheeks again. Dean's tongue laps at them, his lips pressing kisses against the corner of Sam's eye, like he could stop up the geyser, like he could seal Sam's tear-ducts with a kiss.

"Always such a cry-baby," Dean murmurs fondly, and Sam can feel his mouth turning up in a smile as Dean kisses down Sam's cheek, chasing the tears with his tongue, sipping at them.

"Shut up," Sam blushes, feeling himself grinning wide, feeling something long-clenched giving way in his chest, something tightly wound finally slipping free.

"You know, we could always just – you know – " Dean lifts an eyebrow, pulls back enough to look Sam in the eye. He's blushing a little, and Sam thinks he understands. Knows he does.

"You're asking if I wanna just cuddle," Sam suggests, and Dean shrugs.

"I mean, if it's too much for you or whatever. I'm fine with that," Dean assures him.

"No, you're not," Sam chides. "You're always ready for sex. And I'm in good shape, for an old guy." He thrusts his hips up against Dean's thigh, gets a nice jolt as the friction makes his dick throb. "Besides, it's been years."

"Oh god," Dean moans, rubbing his thigh against Sam's dick as he thrusts his own erection into Sam's hip. "I feel like I'm in a scene from _Harold & Maude._"

"Just without the bubbles," Sam chuckles.

"Definitely without the bubbles," Dean agrees. "Too sticky."

"You keep doin' that, I'll show you sticky," Sam responds, thrusting up against Dean's warm thigh.

Dean barks out a laugh, gazes down at Sam with a look of sheer delight, face spread in a wide, toothy grin, eyes sparkling. Beautiful.

"When did you learn to lighten up, Sammy? Huh?" Dean pushes the hair back from Sam's cheek. "I like it, little brother. You got funny in your old age."

"Somebody had to fill in for you," Sam murmurs, slipping his hands behind Dean's neck, tugging him down for another deep kiss.

They don't talk much after that, relearning each other's bodies, pulling little sighs and gasps from each other in ways only they know. Dean kisses down Sam's body with careful reverence, making Sam feel loved and cared for as only Dean can do for him. Sam arches up when Dean's mouth closes over the head of his dick, and he loses himself in Dean's wet heat, surrenders completely to Dean's talented mouth. He opens his eyes after a few moments to watch Dean working on him, and when Dean looks up, kneeling between Sam's legs with his mouth full of Sam's dick, Sam just loses it. It's been too long, and Dean's been gone too long, and having him here now makes Sam feel young again, like he can do anything.

Dean swallows him down like a pro, working Sam's softening dick until he's drunk every last drop. When he's done, he releases Sam's dick and leaves it soft and wrung out in the groove of his hip, kisses Sam's inner thigh.

Sam's suddenly so sleepy he can hardly keep his eyes open. His body is languid and relaxed; he doesn't even notice the faint twinges of soreness in his back, the usual ache in his joints. Dean stretches out beside him again, kisses his cheek and runs his hand through Sam's hair.

"Good?" Dean murmurs against his ear, and Sam smiles. He can't help it. Dean always makes him smile.

"Yeah," Sam sighs, and his eyelids are so heavy he can't even open his eyes.

"Good," Dean presses a kiss against his cheekbone, the corner of his closed eye. "That's good, Sammy. You sleep now."

"But – "

"It's okay," Dean assures him. "You can make it up later. Not going anywhere."

"Promise?" Sam's vaguely aware that he should figure this out, wonders again if he's dead, or dying, if Dean is just some vivid hallucination of his dying brain.

"Yeah, Sammy, I promise." Dean's lips press against his cheek, against the corner of his mouth, warm and comforting and smelling like sex.

He falls asleep with Dean's arms around him, with Dean's head on his chest.

**//**

When he wakes up, Dean's gone.

But he's not alone.

"Hey, sport," Lucifer snarks from the chair at the foot of the bed. Sam's veins flood with ice water and his heart pounds. Sweat breaks out on his skin. "Thought I lost you there for a minute, and you know we can't have that. Can't have you dying on me, Sam Winchester."

Sam tries to sit up, realizes his arms and legs are bound to the bed. He's still naked, still in his bedroom in the bunker, but he's changed. The hair falling in his eyes when he turns his head is dark and thick, his body smooth and muscled, lacking the wrinkles and sinewy toughness of the body he's used to.

He's grown young again.

Sam glares down the length of his own powerful frame at the figure sitting on the desk chair, fully dressed, with his legs crossed. Lucifer gazes up Sam's body with that ironic, speculative look Sam knows too well because it's designed to intimidate, to make Sam feel small and helpless.

"How did you get in here?" Sam demands. This can't be real. Lucifer is in the Cage. Sam put him there. This, he knows with utmost certainty. Everything else is starting to seem a little unclear, but he's absolutely sure of that one thing.

Lucifer looks around, puts his hands up and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm in your head, Sam," he says. "You put us in here. You obviously thought you could hide from me here. Keep me out." He wags his finger at Sam, dips his head to give Sam a salacious wink. "I gotta say, your imagination is one powerful muscle. You had yourself living out a long lifetime here, then checking out on a massive stroke. Very clever."

Sam feels the floor drop beneath him as Lucifer's words sink in, and just like that he knows it's true. As real as it felt, the years and years of memories suddenly fade in Sam's mind and he's back in the past, at the moment when he followed Crowley and Rowena into the special place in Hell where Sam could talk to Lucifer, where Sam could try to convince Lucifer to help lock up the Darkness again. Except something went wrong, and now he's stuck in the cage-that's-not-really-The-Cage with the Lord of the Flies, who has always taken particular pleasure in fucking with Sam's mind.

"Dean's on his way," Sam says for what feels like the two-hundredth time, most of those times inside his own head, not to Lucifer, but this time he wants the bastard to hear it. Living eighty-seven years will do that to a man. Makes him pretty sure there's not much can hurt him anymore, not much he should hold back. "He'll figure out a way to get me out."

Hell, Sam could figure it out for himself if he could just get to the Bunker's library. Except, of course, they aren't really there. And now Lucifer's the one in charge of this particular Hellucination, apparently.

_Fuck._

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Lucifer shakes his head, rises to his feet and starts pacing, clearly agitated and more than slightly annoyed. "Nine hundred years in here and you still won't stop talking about Dean." He pauses at the edge of the bed, crosses one arm across his chest and rests the other elbow on it, tapping his lips with his index finger thoughtfully. "You do realize he isn't real, right?"

Sam's been testing his bindings, trying not to think about how exposed he is, focusing on coming up with a way to distract Lucifer, maybe get him to leave the "room."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam breathes out when he realizes Lucifer is watching him, waiting for a response.

Lucifer nods, shrewd smile turning up the edges of his mouth. "That's right. Dean's not real, and you just don't want to face it. You always did have an amazing capacity for self-delusion, Sam."

 _"He's lying, Sam,"_ Dean's voice from the opposite corner of the room makes Sam head whip around. Dean's right there, wearing the same Henley and jeans he was wearing when he appeared to Sam in the Bunker's kitchen. _"He's the Father of Lies, remember? Don't listen to him!"_

Sam looks back at Lucifer, and the angel frowns at him, then follows Sam's gaze, obviously seeing nothing there.

"Is he here? Is he talking to you?" Lucifer asks, raising his eyebrows. "I can fix that, you know. Take away all your memories of him. It's not hard to do."

"No!" Sam bellows, fighting the panic rising in his chest, struggling against his bindings with all his strength. His gaze whips back to the corner where Dean was standing, but it's empty now.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Lucifer goes on. "I've rebuilt your life for you, replaced your memories so many times, it's frankly surprising you remember Dean at all."

And just like that, Sam's memories of Dean begin to fade, replaced by memories of an imaginary friend, someone he invented as a child because he was lonely and miserable and needed a buddy. Everyone else he knew had a brother or a sister or a mother, and all he had was his possessive, obsessive drill-sergeant father, who left him with babysitters and moved them around a lot. Then later, Dean was his lover, his partner, his back-up on hunts, always there, his reliable imaginary companion. Sam could conjure Dean whenever he needed him; Dean was more real to Sam than most of the shadowy, temporary friends he made and lost throughout his life.

In his heart Sam knows the truth. Dean never really existed; he was all in Sam's head.

 _But that can't be right!_ Sam's mind screams in protest. Images of Dean claw their way to the surface, and there are too many, they're too vivid. There's no way he made Dean up. He's too real.

Sam closes his eyes and Dean's right there, next to him, breath hot against his cheek, body pressed alongside Sam's.

"Dean's real! He's my brother!" The words bubble up from deep in his chest, spill forth on a wave of despair, a final protest.

"Aw, see, that's the touching thing about this, really," Lucifer moves closer, lets the tips of his fingers brush Sam's thigh from his knee to his groin while Sam flinches away and breaks out in a cold sweat of fear and revulsion. "You invented a big brother so you could be more like me. The central delusion you created to keep me out, to protect yourself from me, is really the thing that most closely bonds us. See? Yet another way we're meant to be together, Sam. And I think you know it, in your heart of hearts."

"There is nothing between us!" Sam snarls, shaking his head. "Nothing! I am nothing like you!"

"I disagree," Lucifer says. "We have so much in common. Favorite son, falls out of favor, tries to make it up by saving the world...Oh, Sammy, we are so much alike it's not even funny."

"No," Sam shakes his head, but he's less sure now, uncertainty biting at the inside of his skull like ants.

"You know where I was while you were hiding?" Lucifer goes on. "I was with Michael. I was trying to get my big brother to see how well I did, despite everything. I need to make Michael see I didn't let him down. Not really. Dad was my hero, see. I wanted to be just like him. But when he wasn't around, it was Michael I looked up to. He was so good, so just, so perfect. I wanted to be like that. I followed him around, trying to learn to be like him. But it wasn't enough. Dad left us both. He abandoned us for his new family. For you, his new children."

Sam feels Lucifer's bitterness like a knife against his skin; it bites into his flesh and makes him bleed. Sam can feel rivulets of blood seeping down his chest, over his heart. Then he feels little slices all over, his forehead, his cheeks, his abdomen. It starts out slow, sluggish, but then the blood flow takes up speed, slides into his eyes, across his wrists and ankles, making his skin slippery, slicking the ropes holding him. Silk, he thinks, which is why they're so strong but don't damage his flesh unless he fights them.

"Dean."

The word slips out of Sam like a prayer, like a plea, like a final attempt to conjure something he never believed in anyway because he knows now he's not worthy. No one would ever love him as Dean loved him. No one would ever put him first, above all else. No one would ever die for Sam, go to Hell for him, sacrifice his own childhood and his own future to raise Sam, to be Sam's partner, to care for him when he was sick or injured. No one would always have his back like that, even when he flung himself into Hell, even when he walked back into Hell to get Lucifer to lock up the Darkness.

Not even Dad would do these things. How could Sam imagine a brother who would? How could Sam have the audacity to invent his own savior? A fantasy who was at once brother, best friend, lover, partner, and the one person in the whole world who would always put Sam first?

 _What a fool!_ Sam thinks as he closes his eyes against the blood trickling into them. What a stupid fool he was for making up and believing in something so impossibly selfless. For making up a hero who was all about saving Sam, protecting Sam, being everything for Sam.

Of course Dean wasn't real.

"I could give him back to you," Lucifer hisses, and his voice is right in Sam's ear, breath cold and sharp, like another knife slicing into his skin. "I could replace your memories again, only this time Dean will be real. This time, you'll remember every shared Christmas, every kissed skinned knee. I can make it all real for you, Sam. If you want."

Sam moans, strains weakly against his bonds, slippery with his blood. He knows he's lost a lot of blood, knows it's weakening him. Isn't sure how much fight he's got left in him. Can't remember exactly what it is he's supposed to be fighting for.

"No," Sam protests, the sound coming out more like a moan than a word from his cracked, dry throat. He feels Lucifer's hand moving down his chest, curling around his cock, giving it a couple of slow jerks before releasing it and sliding down to cup his balls.

"Come on, Sam," Lucifer purrs in his ear, hand slipping down behind his halls, fingers sliding easily through Sam's blood till they find the entrance to Sam's body. "Let me in, little buddy. Say yes, and Dean's yours. All yours. For real. I promise."

"No," Sam chokes, blood sliding down his throat, making him cough. His strength is fading, his mind slipping away on a warm, tired sea of half-remembered, half-imagined moments, no longer sure he can tell the difference, not sure he cares.

Dean would never want this. Dean would rather die. Dean _has_ died, at least twice that Sam can remember, to save Sam. At this point, it doesn't even matter to Sam if those memories are real or not. Doesn't matter if Dean is some ideal hero, some perfect brother Sam's made up in his damaged brain. Dean's part of him. He's the good part, the part that keeps him fighting for good and resisting evil, the part that Sam trusts with everything he is.

"Say yes, and I'll give you the brother you always wanted," Lucifer whispers. "I'll bring him to life for you."

No. Lucifer can't do that, Sam's muzzy brain insists. He can't conjure something that's already there. Nothing Lucifer does to him can ever take that away. Dean is Sam's soul.

"He's already in me," Sam gasps. "Whether he's real or not, he's a part of me. You can't come in because he's already here."

Unconsciousness takes him then, blessedly muffling the sounds of Lucifer's angry retort, his frustrated attempts to convince Sam to do what he wants, to drown Sam in his own blood and more false memories.

Sam's so far gone he doesn't even hear Dean calling his name. Sam slips away on a wave of stubborn defiance and endurance that knows no bounds, that has had hundreds of years to grow and strengthen.

He won't let Lucifer in.

Ever.

**//**

**The Bunker, Present Day**

He wakes up screaming.

It takes him a moment to gauge his surroundings. He's in his room in the bunker, alone, fully clothed, and it's dark except for the hall light shining through the slats in the door. His heart is pounding, and the blood rushing in his ears almost drowns out the sound of footsteps in the hall. He's just starting to reach under his pillow for his knife, hoping it's still there in this reality, when the door opens.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean's familiar silhouette fills the doorway, and for a moment Sam just stares at him, although he can't see his face with the light behind him.

"Dean?" Sam sits up on the bed, running his hands through his hair, trying to clear his sleepy, clouded mind. "What happened?"

"Uh, I think you had another nightmare," Dean says.

"What are you doing here?" As soon as he says it, it doesn't make sense, like Sam's memories are all jumbled again.

Dean doesn't seem too fazed, though. He's probably heard it before.

"I live here," he says easily, like he's talking to a child, and now Sam's sure he's heard it before. "This is our home, remember?"

Sam looks down at himself, recognizes the clothes he's wearing, remembers falling asleep last night. It's been three nights since he was in the cage-that's-not-really-The-Cage with Lucifer. It's been hard to sleep, and when he does he's right back there again, living what feels like several lifetimes as Lucifer rearranges his memories, messes with his sense of reality. He's not dealing with it very well, he knows that. Dean's had to force him to go to bed twice, both times after falling asleep on the table in the library over a pile of books, researching the Darkness with his usual single-minded focus, trying to stave off his Hell-memories. Last night Dean woke him up enough to walk him down the hall, collapse on his bed. Dean must've taken his shoes off for him. Dean lay down with him to get him to fall asleep again, and his brother getting up to go sleep in his own bed is probably what triggered Sam's nightmare.

"Yeah, sorry," Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "I remember. Didn't mean to wake you. You should go back to bed."

Dean knows, and Sam's grateful that he knows, what Lucifer did to Sam's sex drive. It's something they never talk about, but Sam's pretty sure Alastair did things to Dean that he'll never talk about either. It's probably unhealthy as all hell, and they've probably both earned a few years in the loony bin with endless therapy, but they're Winchesters, so they deal. They bottle it up and keep going.

Sam knows he's being treated with kid gloves right now, though. He can tell when Dean's worried about his state of mind. Sam's let slip enough of what happened, of all the years of false memories, of believing that Dean wasn't real, or that he died a long time ago, and he knows that Dean's a little wary of him right now. He's being a little too careful.

"Right," Dean says with a hesitant little wave. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Dean, wait," Sam calls after him as Dean turns to go, suddenly panicked at the thought of being left alone in the setting of so many bad memories, no matter whether they're real or imagined. "Can I – can we sleep in your room tonight?"

Dean tilts his head, and Sam can almost see the little smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, Sammy, o' course we can."

Sam nods gratefully, gets up to brush his teeth while Dean watches, so Dean can see he's making an effort. Dean steps back, lets Sam go first down the hall to Dean's room, keeps a hand on his shoulder to let Sam know he's there.

In Dean's room the bedside light is on, the bed rumpled and slept in. It smells like Dean in here. It's neat and tidy, with everything in its place, and that in itself is comforting to Sam.

Dean shuts the door behind them and Sam turns, notices for the first time that Dean's wearing a tee-shirt and boxers, his usual sleeping uniform. He's heart-breakingly beautiful, and Sam's suddenly as hard as he's ever been. He unbuttons his flannel and takes it off, then pulls his tee-shirt off over his head and drops it on the bed as well. He watches Dean's eyes darken, and it's all the invitation he needs. He takes the long step to bring their bodies together, gathering Dean's face in his hands, drinking in his familiar features with his eyes the moment before his lips touch Dean's.

The kiss is long and deep and restorative; Sam lets Dean's face go to wrap one arm around his waist, slipping his hand down over Dean's ass possessively. Dean slides his fingers into Sam's hair, cradles the back of Sam's head with a little more pressure than usual, like he's willing Sam's brain to fix itself, like he's pushing his memories back into place with sheer brute force. He's got his other hand splayed across Sam's back, kneading the muscles, making them ripple and clench under his touch. When Sam squeezes the perfect globe of Dean's ass, Dean digs his blunt nails into Sam's skin. Sam gasps into Dean's mouth, bends him backwards so he can grind his erection into Dean's stomach. Dean growls and bites Sam's lower lip and Sam feels the sound deep in Dean's throat, feels the rumble in his chest. He walks Dean backwards until he hits the bed, then pushes him away so Dean falls backwards on the bed, blinking up at Sam with that dark, debauched look Sam loves so much.

Sam keeps his eyes locked on Dean's as he unbuttons his jeans, pushes them and his boxers down, letting his cock bob free. Dean's eyes follow the movement, and his tongue flicks out to lick along his lower lip. He lifts his eyes to Sam's again as he pulls the lip between his teeth, pushes up on his elbows so he can scoot backwards on the bed as Sam climbs on top of him, legs bracketing Dean's hips.

Sam lowers his mouth to Dean's, pulls Dean's lower lip into his mouth, worries it where Dean's teeth were a moment before as Dean slides his hands down Sam's back, over his ribs, careful where bruises linger, where Sam's still sore from the beating he barely remembers. Sam kisses down Dean's jaw, down the bruises on Dean's neck where Lucifer tried to choke the life out of him, down over his clothed chest. Sam mouths and sucks at Dean's nipple through the fabric, pulling a low rumbling moan from deep inside him, making him squirm and arch his body up. Sam sucks both nipples to hardened peaks through the tee-shirt before sliding his hands under it to push the shirt up and off, exposing Dean's broad chest, scattered with freckles, bruises already yellowing just like Sam's.

Sam kisses down Dean's sternum, over the hint of a scar that's left from Metatron's blade, knows it matches the one on his back from Cold Oak. He kisses down Dean's belly, dips his tongue in Dean's belly button, eliciting a sharp gasp. He kisses across Dean's hip bone, pulls the waistband of the boxers down and takes Dean's hard length in his hand as he shifts to one side, pushing the boxers down so that Dean can kick them off as he carefully licks the head of Dean's erect cock before sucking it into his mouth.

"Sam."

It's the first word spoken between them since they came into the room, punched out of Dean as an uncontrollable reaction to Sam's mouth, and it makes Sam smile. Dean slides his hands into Sam's hair, caressing rather than urging him on, but there's urgency there too. There's an edge to the way Dean jerks his hips up, forcing more of his cock into Sam's mouth, and when he hits Sam's gag reflex Sam has a flashback of Lucifer stuffing himself down Sam's throat, using Dean's body to do it. He almost chokes, and Dean feels it, backs down immediately.

"You okay?" he asks, voice hoarse and wrecked, like he's the one who's had a cock in his throat. "Wanna stop?"

Sam glances up at him and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good," he assures Dean, taking Dean's cock into his mouth again, holding the base and relaxing his throat muscles. Dean gives a tentative thrust but he's worried now, Sam can feel it. He knows. Dean knows exactly what Sam went through, from the moment he asked the crucial question in the car as they drove away.

_"How long were you in there, Hell-time?"_

_"Felt like about a hundred-and-fifty years," Sam answered, and Dean clenched his jaw and looked angry for awhile._

Sam doubles his efforts, determined to make Dean enjoy the blowjob, to make him stop worrying, and he can sense it the moment Dean just surrenders and goes with it, forgets to be careful and snaps his hips up, making those tight little gasps that Sam loves so much. Sam pulls off at the last minute, though, when he can feel Dean's balls tighten, lifts his spit-sloppy face to Dean.

"Want you in me," he growls, hearing the gravelly quality in his voice, knows what he must look like from the half-lidded, slack-mouthed way Dean gazes down at him.

"You sure?" Dean pants, clearly making an effort to hold himself in check.

"Yeah," Sam smiles a little, lets Dean see how pleased he is with Dean's debauchery, with himself for being the cause of it.

It takes a while to get Sam prepped enough for Dean to allow him to take what he wants. Dean returns the favor of the blowjob, of course, and Sam can't imagine how he could have ever wanted anything more than to watch Dean's mouth on him while his lube-slick fingers work him open. When Dean's finally satisfied that he won't cause undo pain or another flashback, he lets Sam roll him onto his back so that Sam can climb on top again, so that he can guide Dean's lube-slick cock to the entrance to his body while Dean holds onto his hips. Sam locks his gaze with Dean's as he lowers himself, pushing past the ring of muscle with two short puffs of breath, then impaling himself to the hilt with one long moan, eyes sliding closed against the burn. When Sam opens his eyes again, he's momentarily surprised to see Dean gazing up at him, green eyes sparkling with a film of tears, and he smiles a little, nods.

"It's good," he assures Dean, leaning down to kiss him as he starts to move, circling his hips around Dean's cock, adjusting to the fullness. Dean slides his hand down Sam's back, over his ass, finds the place where their bodies are joined, leaves his hand there as Sam rises up, then sinks back down again. After a couple of experimental moves, Sam finds a rhythm, finds the balance between pleasure and burn that he needs. Then Dean thrusts up, hits Sam's prostate, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the rush of sparks up his spine, against the stars in his vision. Dean does it again, then again, and Sam starts to lose it, starts to black out.

When he comes, it's on a wave of words. He's babbling, gasping out Dean's name and an endless stream of swears and vows, vaguely aware that Dean's coming too, silently, as Sam finishes his mindless muttering.

"You, you, you," Sam chants. "Always you. Even when you're not real, it's still you."

It's a verbal negation of Lucifer's insistent "me, me, me," of Lucifer's attempt to become Sam's everything, to replace Dean in Sam, to remove Dean from Sam permanently.

No one and nothing could ever do that, Sam knows now. Dean's more than just flesh-and-blood, more than just his lover, his brother, his partner. Dean's an idea in Sam's mind, the love in his heart, the faith in his soul.

They lie tangled together for some time afterwards, ignoring the cooling mess on their bellies and chests, and Sam's careful to shift onto his side after a while to avoid crushing his brother. It's the quiet between storms for them, like always; Sam doesn't doubt for a moment there will be powerful battles ahead for them yet. But for now it's good to rest. It's good to feel Dean's heartbeat against his cheek, to feel Dean's chest rise and fall under his arm, to feel the ache in his ass and know Dean put it there.

Tomorrow they'll get up and get to work again. Tomorrow there'll still be bruises and flashbacks and issues between them because they're brothers first, and Sam's just spent a few decades in Hell.

But tonight, it's good, and Sam takes that as a win.

Definitely a win.


End file.
